


Wisteria Death

by nocturnalremedy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gay Male Character, I suddenly was bold enough to post this, M/M, Magic, Male Protagonist, Prostitute OC, Rough Sex, Self-Insert, Shameless Smut, Slut OMC, not crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29892537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnalremedy/pseuds/nocturnalremedy
Summary: When a virgin who loves snark, cutting comments, and wants to be as "adventurous" as he can, gets reincarnated into a backwards society.No Sept, King, or Maester can get in the way of this boy's want for d***. Hunky Knights and Lords, watch your pants, for you are not safe from these hands....Or my interpretation of what I would do if I ever went into Westeros. A.K.A - be a slut.
Relationships: Aerys II Targaryen/Original Character(s), Brandon Stark/Original Character(s), Tywin Lannister/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27
Collections: Foreknowledge





	Wisteria Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KingErix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingErix/gifts).



“There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.”

― Mark Twain

* * *

The world wasn’t always numb. Wasn’t always so cold and dreary. 

Life used to feel like a burning ember, with the warmth of a mother’s embrace - not that he ever really knew what that meant. He just guessed that a mother’s embrace was that warm. 

When he was taken into the new world, he was quite ready to have given everything up. His last moments were meant to be peaceful, and of course, he would go to heaven. 

After all, his death was on the bed of a hospital in Vancouver, a place he hadn’t left since he was born. Where he was surrounded by the humid air of the waterside and the sometimes sharp bite of the air during the winter season. 

He passed his days endlessly waiting for some new development. 

Both his parents and brother died in a car accident, a year after he was born, while he was still in the hospital. He hadn’t had any memories of them. The government, of course, paid for all his medical fees under the universal/free healthcare bills. That’s probably the only reason he’s still alive, considering that his parents were poor, and his inheritance only included a few thousand dollars on top of his parent’s life insurance. 

No orphan really wanted the money that came from the death of their would-be family. 

He hadn’t heard his own voice for a very long time. A life so quaint and quiet, because who was there to speak to. What could he talk about to a nurse that he’s talked to for years when he hasn’t left the hospital in that same amount of years. 

Born with infant acute leukemia and somehow gained psychogenic mutism along the way. Apparently, the chemo and treatments initially worked and were eventually able to drive out cancer, but while still recovering in the hospital, cancer returned and would continue the cycle for years on end. 

By the time he was 18, which stretched his survival rate far past the projected 5 to 10 years. Completely emaciated, pale and blue-tinged. With large bags under his eyes and the classic baldness, he lived in abject physical disrepair. 

It was a horrendously veined broken doll, with the ceramic pieces falling all around him.

His body was no longer able to handle the treatments and he died in his sleep. Actually, it was really painful. People say that you probably don’t feel anything, but it’s more like the oppressive feeling of being inside a room you can’t leave, the walls are getting smaller and the oxygen finally runs out until you gasp for nonexistent breaths.

He thought that they might have already known. The doctors and nurses. In the days prior, they most likely saw his slow decline. Of course, it happened so quickly that they hadn’t even made any estimates before he was already gone. 

But the pitying looks and the extra kindnesses were always a way to tell that he was about to leave the world/

Having friends in a hospital bed is really hard. Especially when they always seem to get better and leave you after a while, only to forget about you and never speak to you again. 

So he stopped speaking... slowly, didn’t speak entirely for 5 years, and then another year, and another, and another until he was old enough to graduate from high school. He lived roaming the halls of the hospital or living in the room where he had spent most of his life. 

Because there was no point in making friends.

Yet he found beauty in books and the shows on the TV, where people could go to magical schools, or become a ninja, or join a guild, or even become a king. 

There was a time when he was obsessed with the A Song of Ice and Fire Series, or the Game of Thrones. He would act like he was playing his own little game of thrones, by learning to be snarky or cunning. 

In his case that was him attempting to coax the nurses into giving him another ice cream. Or to have them buy another few books for him since he couldn’t leave. 

He saw people who were like him. Who liked certain people like he did, who were people that didn’t follow society's norm. 

He didn’t know that there were even people similar to him, like Loras Tyrell who didn’t appreciate the female body, who adored one Renly, and yet both died tragically through the green flame or a shadow. 

There were the adventurous like Oberyn and the prostitutes like Olyvar. Well, he was never really in the norm anyway as he was just as homosexual as three of those four.

He wanted to see the world and love people as others do. Instead, he was born in this waste, this utter garbage that was probably left as roadside dirt by God or whoever made him. 

He wanted to be wild and as adventurous as he could. He didn’t particularly care about adventure, but he did want to enjoy the pleasures of life that others did. Pleasures unobtainable with a broken figure.

They weren’t beautiful, and would never be especially with his sickness. He couldn’t even leave the hospital in case he passes out temporarily, or dead, on the street. 

Yet he dies, in a small single bed in the middle of a stark white room, with an episode of Arya slicing the throat of Walder, laying back against the firm pillows and somewhat itchy sheets. 

Wishing he could go to another world and live a life where he chose to live a life that no one else would steal from him. Where he could be as risky as one could be. Where he could enjoy the gifts of life. 

He goes in the most mundane way, with no attachment to this world beyond his desire for something else. 

* * *

Lasus Waters, but not of bastard descent, was named after a poet in ancient Essosi history. His mother and father, both dead, came from the dark lands of Asshai. 

His mother once told him that he was named after a destitute author who wrote a particular piece of poignant poetry. It focused on the rape and subsequent death of a muse when they caught the eye of a wealthy and eagle-eyed lord.

Famous for his wrath, influence, and lust, the lord would find a young lute-player on the side of a road, playing the sweetest of songs. And he became enraptured in the sounds of this nightingale. 

The boy only played his tunes and never deigned to look at the men and women who gave him the riches he collected in the bowl that was laid upon the street. 

He didn’t look at the man either, and even when called would keep his head low. The lord became more and more angered at this wretch who ignored his authority. 

He came every day, asking for the nightingale to come with him to his home, yet the boy would continue to play his beautiful songs until the lord could take it no longer. 

He chose to capture the young player. 

In captivity, the lutist grew increasingly sullen and lost his capability to produce the music he once did. The lord lost interest in the useless creature who had no purpose anymore. A voice which no longer sang and fingers that strummed no more. But a face of beauty, he was left with. 

That night two guards held the player as the lord did his way with him. The man would say that if the player would not play, he would find a different, darker use for the boy’s body. And he did.

Lay bleeding the brightest red of blood, against the cold and grimy floor, with rats scurrying around him and a three-eyed raven watching from outside the bars against his window, he cursed the man and his entire line to a future of torture and demise, but never a complete annihilation.

Only after the lord and his guards left his room, and the twilight came after the moon, did the young boy finally play a tune. A tragic requiem of the world he sang about in his music, and the life he had wished for as a child. He wrenched out the bars on his windows using his chains, and with bloodied and ripped hands, flung himself from the terrace. 

What a tragic tale. Perhaps made up by some irregular dream, a drug, or in fact a true story based on fact, one would never know. 

There were no historical records of the lord or the lutist apart from the poet, even in their family library.

Mother was a noble, and so she was relegated to reading these inane and often useless pieces of literature, but this specific one struck her. She admired the flowing soliloquies and named her one son after the esoteric poet. 

She and Lasus belonged to a nameless but old house. A family dying from great bloodline curses and inbreeding. 

All they knew was that their house was founded by an ancestor’s gluttonous desire for magic and control. 

Famed for water sorcery, they had an immense ability, but the family would crash on the same power they grew high on. 

Mother Rhoyne, and Chroyane where the family had originally escaped from when the Prince had set a plague upon the land, were the original sources of their power.

And as they moved to Asshai, east from their homeland, the power would grow weaker and weaker until, at one point, some form of war in Stygai would strip them of their lasting magics.

They were so similar to the lord in the poem who wished to obtain that which he hadn’t gained through illegitimate means. In a desire for something, he brought ruin to himself and his line.

Lasus was only part-Asshai, his father from the south-eastern Empire of Yi-Ti. But he didn’t know much about his paternal family. The man hadn’t seemed rich, nor did he have lessons in etiquette. 

Most likely he was a farmer or a labourer. 

Those of the Shadowlands bore pale skin, light-pink lips, and often strangely coloured eyes. The ambient dark-sorcery forced such mutations, but those with witch-ancestors were more unique in colouring. 

With the same lips and porcelain skin, his hair was straight and black. The latter trait came from his paternal Yi-Ti’ish ancestry. However, even more, strange along with his monolid and slanted eyes, was the eye colour itself. 

They weren’t even unique of colour, but simply devoid of it. The shade of ghost grass and the dead. The shade of those unseeing or all-seeing.

Such features often frightened people outside his abode. Some believe him to be blind, others thought him possessed.

It was simply the magical resurgence within his blood. 

  
  


They were only trying to make a better life for him outside of the large and empty city devoid of child-like life. 

When crossing Old Valyria on a ship to White Harbour, his parents would succumb to some ocean-sickness and die while he would continue on to the western city. 

It was ironic that the one domain his family once reigned, the waters, would be the same where they would die of water-fever. 

What was more expected was that they were immediately tossed off the ship into the cold and murky ocean, where their bodies would never be found again. The ship needed to take precautions to keep everyone else safe, after all.

Lasus chose to abandon his old life, as such nobility like that of Asshai would bring more unsavoury characters than benefits in the Sunset Kingdoms. Even more so, as his family represented sorcerers and witches whose origins were shunned by the Seven and Andals. 

He was 8 when that happened. 

Therefore, left alone on the journey, only safe from the sailors on the ship as other women were passengers. He was completely orphaned once he touched the ground and they disappeared to find families and jobs. 

Living in a small hovel, by an alleyway, he would learn the art of disguise and pick-pocketing as most street urchins and rats would. 

It wasn’t enough, and slowly he would incur more catches by the merchants and city guards than he could feed himself. 

And each time, with each massive beating upon his body, he would lay on the ground, just as bloodied and broken as the lutist, starving for one more day. 

He escaped the city, seeing that his pickpocketing prospects would be better in another town.

Unfortunately, he was only able to make it as far as Wintertown before he sadly fell to the ground and passed out from inescapable hunger. 

He didn’t want to live anymore. He didn’t want to feel anything anymore.

Sometimes he would just pass out, thinking he’d finally reached the point of death and just leave peacefully. But a passerby would throw a bit of old bread or a half-eaten apple then and he couldn’t just stop.

Stop his hands from reaching out onto the dirt-infested roads to pick it up and take the tiniest bite. 

And next thing, after he opened his half-closed eyelids were his empty hands and a mouth tasting slightly of whatever he had scarfed down

It was humiliating. Living like a rat that fought for garbage, living on the streets filled with shit from people's doors, living so desperately as he simultaneously wanted to die and live.

And yet just that one night he passed away. Like another boy in another world, who simply died, in different circumstances, of different parents. 

* * *

**Purgatory:**

**Death was bored.**

**Not just a little starved of something interesting, but literally like a rabid dog waiting for something a bit more challenging in this stupid planet.**

**He gave them an obvious threat, and yet they blamed wildlings. He showed them that incest was bad and caused madness, but lo and behold, they married their sisters thrice more.**

**A planet that hadn’t progressed politically for eight-thousand years. Yes, they played their game of thrones for a few hundred years, and before that, they were in a constant state of kingdom-conflict.**

**But this Death, yes.**

**He had enough.**

**So he saw one of the last kids of a dying family that once had strong powers exit the world, his soul passing through one of the gates that would take them to the Heavens, for they were only a child.**

**This family line would go extinct as well because the world would not see a resolve to at least one of the conflicts and instead acted in a scornful cycle of take and take and lose and then take more.**

**The greedy and wealthy once again acting upon the poor. The merchants loved their freedoms and “economical” thinking yet sent people into slave-labour.**

**However, there were also the monarchies and the absolutists that dragged their power as a weapon, a shield, but also were chasing after it when they lost it.**

**So what options did he really have?**

**Of course, he could just leave the world alone, like a good Death would, like the Death before him.**

**It was the responsible thing to do after all.**

**Oh yes, very irresponsible of him to just pluck some other innocent soul from another world and timeline to just plop into this one.**

**He would NEVER do such a thing, would he.......**

**Death was desperate, he knew that he shouldn’t do it, should just leave him alone, but he just wanted to switch things up a bit.**

**They were watching him, and they were gonna get pissed when they saw what he was about to do, but like he just wants to have some fun.**

**Is that such a mean thing to ask?**

**Death didn’t choose a soul that was going to do some uplifting, he was gonna be honest. Their changes didn’t last for shit in the universes that were affected.**

**Why, one asks? Well, as the true god that had to clean up after all the ASB’s and other shit transmigrators, the worlds under his purview were only allowed to have social and political changes.**

**Any and all economic or technological anomalies would cause the universe to self-destruct. So after they all lived and had a good time, and then inevitably croaked over and died that “peaceful death”, he would go send them to one of the hells (for making him do all that work).**

**Death would later go into the universe to set everything correctly back in order, without the knowledge of the transported individual. He would use house rebellions and the Citadel, to collect or destroy any progress that was formed by the reincarnation.**

**The world needed reform from the inside, not some other random soul making it all happen.**

**So of course, he chose a soul that had no reason to uplift or cause irregular changes. Instead, he chose someone that simply wished to live in the world just to experience the pleasures he never felt.**

**A soul that was a sad, sad virgin. No one ever said that Death wasn’t generous to the poor and unfortunate.**

**This time he just happened to pick a would-be “whore” (literally and figuratively) as his new reincarnator.**

**There was no ulterior motive, no deep need to progress. Only a chance at living another life, no matter how long it was.**

**And so came in the small victim of a long battle against cancer. A boy of eighteen years, not yet an adult for they had never seen the real world.**

**The road to hell was paved with good intentions.**

* * *

... teehee... <3  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Ngl, I began this story without a clear end, so that may be my downfall. I would say it's practice for me writing smut scenes, but I've already written a quite a bit, so I'm not really practicing. 
> 
> Btw, I dedicated this to KingErix, because I love Herald Of Dreams.


End file.
